


runaway hearts

by thundersnowstorm



Series: from what i've tasted of desire [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASOIAF Rare Pair Week, Alternate Universe, Elia Martell Lives, F/F, Femslash February, Lyanna Stark Lives, one day i will write these two the epic fic they deserve, until then here ya go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-05 16:18:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17922176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundersnowstorm/pseuds/thundersnowstorm
Summary: First, they survive. After that, they will conquer.Elia and Lyanna, one sunny afternoon in Lys.





	runaway hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Day four of asoiafrarepairs week - silks/ ~~furs~~

Lys is hot, hotter than anything Lyanna could have imagined. Even her days in the Tower of Joy, pregnancy and all, hadn't been this bad. But Dorne had been a dry, barren heat. By contrast, the Lysene humidity is a living thing, the air turning to soup in her lungs. A thin film of sweat covers her skin, and when she tries to remember the cool breeze of a Northern autumn, her memory comes up empty.

Even Elia, born and bred in sunny Dorne, mislikes the weather. Her hair is piled atop her head more days than not, the edges frizzing around her face. She is sitting beside the courtyard pool now, skirt hiked up to her thighs to let her legs dangle into the water. The loose garments cling to Elia's body, the round swell of her breasts pushing against the flimsy silk. Lyanna watches a drop of sweat make its way down her neck, and swallows.

There is at least one thing to appreciate about the Lysene heat.

The sun beats down on Lyanna the moment she steps out of the shadows of the courtyard's low archway, and she tries to resist the urge to shout a pointless curse at the sky. She tugs uncomfortably at the bodice of her dress before heading over to the edge of the pool. Lysene dresses are simple, loose arrangements that drape across enough of a woman's body to hold up some semblance of modesty, but in this heat, even the gauzy silk feels too heavy.

She flops down beside Elia, swinging her legs into the cool water. "Seven _hells_ , it is hot out today."

"Language," reprimands Elia, motioning towards where the little ones are playing towards the shallow end of the pool.

Lyanna grins. "And who was it that Dany picked up that one curse about the Mother's teats from?"

"That was an accident!" protests Elia. "I didn't exactly intend to drop that box on my foot."

"Yes, dear - Jon, Egg, don't push each other underwater," Lyanna says sternly, her voice carrying easily to where the children's play has gotten rowdier than it ought to.

"Sorry Momma," says Jon without turning.

"Aegon," says Elia when the child in question ignores Lyanna, a note of warning in her voice. "What do we say?"

"Sorry!" he yells, before jumping on his sister's back. Rhaenys shrieks and shoves him to the side, splashing water at him for good measure. Elia sighs.

"Some days I wonder if it's even worth it telling the children to behave," she says.

"Oh they're all a bunch of little monsters," Lyanna says cheerfully. "But they're our little monsters."

Jon is the only child born from her own body, but she has fed Dany from her own breast, bandaged Viserys's scrapes, braided Rhaenys's hair, wrestled Aegon into his clothing. They are her children, hers and Elia's, blood be damned.

Elia watches the children with a fond smile, but there is an unease behind her eyes. Lyanna drops her voice. "What is it?"

"Sorry?"

"Something's worrying you. What is it?" Lyanna twines her fingers with Elia's.

Elia fiddles with the embroidery along the border of her dress. Her eyes don't leave the children. "There has been word of Westerosi men at the docks. Highborn."

Lyanna swallows, throat dry. "Robert's men?"

"It could be," Elia says. "I don't know. For all we know Robert hired Essosi sellswords instead of sending his own men."

"What does Ser Arthur think?" Lyanna asks, though she already knows the answer.

"We have been in Lys for too long. People have begun to take notice." Elia hesitates. "Arthur thinks we should leave, find somewhere new."

Lyanna bites her lip, almost hard enough to break the skin. "The children like it here. Even with the heat, they seem happy."

"I know." Elia's words are heavy with exhaustion. "But the Usurper will not stop hunting us until -" She stops herself, but they both know what threat Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister hold. Lyanna glances back at the archway, half-expecting to find a dark figure brandishing a sword.

"It's not fair," Lyanna bites out, and Elia's hand tightens around hers in comfort.

"No, it isn't."

Lyanna lies her head against Elia's shoulder. "Where to now then?"

"Illyrio Mopatis says we would be safe in Pentos again," she says, "but I don't trust the man. Tyrosh perhaps, or even Norvos. Doran's wife is Norvoshi, her family may be willing to take us in for a while."

"What about Braavos?" suggests Lyanna.

"Why Braavos?" asks Elia curiously.

"I always wanted to visit as a girl. A Braavosi water dancer once came to Winterfell. I never thought fighting could be graceful before I saw him fight."

The man had spoken little of the Common Tongue and the few words he did know had been of the cruder variety, but on the training grounds, sparring against Rodrik Cassel, it had become clear where the term water dancer had come from. His body had never stopped moving, his feet skimming the ground so lightly he might have been flying. Brandon had scoffed, saying there was no way any Essosi dancer could bring down a Northern warrior. Of course, when the Braavosi had beaten him into the dust without breaking so much as a sweat, Brandon had swallowed his words like vinegar.

Lyanna's chest tightens. It still hurts, thinking of Brandon, of Winterfell.

Somehow, Elia knows where her thoughts have taken her. She presses a light kiss to Lyanna's hair. "You will see Winterfell again," she whispers. "I promise you that."

Lyanna laughs, an empty, hollow sound. "I rather doubt Ned would be happy to see me."

Elia pulls away to face Lyanna, meeting her eyes with a hard intensity. She tucks a strand of hair behind Lyanna's ear. "You aren't to blame for the deaths of Brandon and your father," she says, punctuating each word with emphasis. "I was there, Lya, and trust me, the choice was all Aerys."

She flinches. Many have tried to hide the story from her, of how Father had been doused in wildfire and Brandon had been strangled trying to reach his sword, but Elia has never lied to her. After being fed so many lies for her supposed protection, Elia's honesty is refreshing.

"I still shouldn't have - I don't know," says Lyanna, trailing off. She won't say Rhaegar's name. Neither of them like speaking of him. "Winterfell is full of ghosts now. I don't know if I could ever face them."

The guilt will likely never disappear, and Lyanna has accepted it. It is something she must carry with her, like the scars from Jon's birth that mark her body. Elia doesn’t blame her, has told her so more than a dozen times, yet the guilt lingers.

"We all have our ghosts," says Elia gently. "And we must all learn to live with them. But trust me when I say that Winterfell is not lost to you."

At the end of the pool, Jon is laughing at something Dany said. It astounds Lyanna sometimes, how he looks more and more like Ned with every passing day. His skin has darkened beneath the relentless Lysene sun, but he has same serious grey eyes of her older brother, that same long face. Jon is Northern through and through, a piece of home hidden away in Essos.

"The children will see Westeros one day," says Lyanna. "They deserve that much."

Elia's dark eyes flash, her gaze fixed upon little Aegon. "Westeros is their inheritance. I will see it through if it is the last thing I do."

Stags might be powerful and dragons might be fearsome, but all beasts must eventually bow before the sun. People call Elia frail, and yes, her health can be fragile, but Lyanna has not met a stronger woman than her. She knows how to be clever, how to make people love her, and she will work until she bleeds to secure a future for their children. If there is anyone who can send Tywin Lannister and Robert Baratheon to their knees, it is Elia Martell.

Lyanna wraps her arms around Elia. "One day," she promises. "One day."

The children are still young, and they deserve a childhood free of the worries of a realm's destiny, but they will not be young forever. A day will come when the last of the Targaryens return from Essos, an army at their back, and when that day comes, they will be flanked by daughters of the sun and the wolf.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit for the fic is [here](https://thundersnowstorm.tumblr.com/post/183094084961/runaway-hearts-first-they-survive-after-that)


End file.
